


In Sickness and In Health

by Actaea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, It's just all fluff, M/M, Protective Sherlock, These characters are going to kill me, and stupid, sick!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actaea/pseuds/Actaea





	In Sickness and In Health

           “Sit down,” Sherlock gestured to the sofa. John sneezed. “Shut up.”

            “I didn’t s-”

            “I know. Just give me a moment to think.”

            John snorted. He couldn’t remember the last time Sherlock needed a moment to think. A moment. It usually took him a fraction of a second to figure things out. A moment was a lifetime for Sherlock. John sighed. He was going mad. He’d even started convincing himself that it was normal to shape his life around one insane man. One insane,  _genius_  man – but still. He sniffled a little, wiping his nose on the edge of his jumper. It was childlike, he knew, and bad hygiene – he was still a doctor, even though he didn’t manage to do much doctoring these days – but Sherlock had refused to let him move anywhere, even for a tissue. He was pacing now. His skinny feet were going to wear a hole into their flat’s floor, and they both knew they couldn’t afford to fix that.

       “Sherl-”

      “John, what part of  _shut up_  did you misunderstand?”

      “Sherlock, I need a tissue.”

      “What?” Sherlock looked at him, hands steepled in that familiar beneath-the-chin-thinky-sherlock-thing he did. “Fine, fine,” he murmured distractedly. “No!” He shouted suddenly, turning towards him. “ _Don’t move another inch_.” He widened his eyes at John dramatically. John froze, eyes darting around the room –  _what was wrong? What had Sherlock realised? Was something horrible abou_ \- “I’ll get them,” he said, almost running out of the room, “Lie back down,” he called after him. He sank back into the seat, rolling his eyes, huffing a sigh, slightly amused but mostly annoyed. Sherlock was such a drama queen. He sighed, tapping his fingers against the sofa’s side. Honestly. It was just a common cold, there was no need to make such a fuss. It was at that precise moment that he let loose a sneeze so enormous that it wracked his short frame from top to bottom, a mini earthquake that started and ended inside of John Watson. A bodyquake. He snorted, chuckling softly at his own idiotic musings.

       “What’s funny?” Sherlock had practically run back into the room, wielding the box of tissues like a triumphant knight.  _His_   _own personal prince charming_. He snorted again. Loudly. The snort turned into a chortle, the chortle into a giggle, and before he knew it he was full-on belly laughing at Sherlock Holmes, consulting prince, and destroyer of tissue paper.

         Sherlock looked at him, confusion written all over his face. Great. All he had needed to do to keep Sherlock’s attention was get sick and go completely crazy. The box of tissues was now held limply in long fingers, and Sherlock went from looking confused to fully disgruntled. John managed to gather himself, sobering quickly at the sight of Sherlock looking so mystifiedly offended. He gently took it from his hands, a gentle  _thank you, Sherlock_  managing to make his flatmate look a little less peeved.

          A half hour passed, Sherlock still pacing back and forth in front of John. It was enough to make a man dizzy, looking at him.

          “Soup,” Sherlock said suddenly, staring at John, startling him from his stupor. He’d managed to fall into a semi-sleep, something he’d perfected in the army.

           “What?”

            “You’re sick. That’s what sick people do, isn’t it? Drink soup?”

            “Sherlock…are you … can you  _make_  soup?”

             Sherlock gave him a look. It had gotten to the point where John could tell exactly what he meant by his looks. This was his  _John, don’t ask stupid questions_  look.

            “I am not _entirely_ hapless, John.” He said stiffly.

            “I know you’re not, Sherlock, but with your track record-”

            “Are you referring to the small fire that ocurred last year? Because you must know that was through no fault of my own, there were some extremely volat-”

            "We couldn't go in the kitchen for two weeks, Sherlock."

            “I can make  _soup_ , John.” Sherlock always knew what John’s looks meant. Two minutes of time with him – less than that, but a human approximation – and he had known and would always know. This was his  _I don’t believe you Sherlock, you obviously caused that fire I can see right through you don’t even_ _try_ _and lie to me_  look. He stuck his chin out, rather like a stubborn child. “I can make soup,” he repeated.

            An hour later, John heard a string of rather inventive curses coming from the general vicinity of the kitchen. Silence for another half an hour. Ten minutes later, John had a boiling hot bowl of soup in his hand and a rather pleased Sherlock sitting across from him.

           “You made soup,” John said, his amazement evident.

            Sherlock gave him his  _don’t be obvious John,_ and his _I told you I could_  look. John took a tentative sip, dipping his tongue rather delicately into the spoon. He expected it to be a lot of things; horrendous, ungodly, awful, disgusting, reminiscent of frog excrement – what he didn’t expect, however, was it to be so hot that it scalded his tongue to the point that he was certain he had lost some of the nerves.

            “Fuck,  _ow_ ,” John yelled, fanning his mouth frantically. Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide, fleeing from the room. Great. Fucking perfect. Now he’d gone and offended him. John looked desperately around the room, trying to find something to make the burning stop. He heard a crash, a muffled gasp of pain, and then Sherlock was back, practically force feeding him a glass of water. John had no choice but to swallow. His mouth calmed down a little, enough for him to croak out an “It was hot,” and even when John was in severe pain, he recognised the _shut up, John, I’m trying to take care of you_ look. Another half hour passed without incident.

            “You should go to bed. It's late,” John informed him. Sherlock gave him the look again.

            “I can take care of myself; I’m a grown man you know.” He was barely spared a glance.

            “It’s just a co-”

            “John if you don’t shut up, I might be forced to get you a dictionary.”

            “Bu-”

             “John.” He looked up at the man standing above him. For someone so thin, he certainly threw his weight around a lot. John softened a little at the sound of his name coming from that mouth. “Shut up.”

             He shut up. He followed him to his bed and allowed himself to be tucked in. And he let Sherlock Holmes, consulting prince, take care of him.

 


End file.
